The boy was a stranger, yet Ree had glimpsed him before, during communion. Something about him called to her, whispered that he was different. Ree placed a hand on his bony chest. It rose shakily beneath her palm, his heartbeat faint. Death was near him. Uponhim. She could feel it. See it too, if she concentrated hard enough, swelling around the room in a blanketing black presence that fluttered like a veil. The presence kept away from Ree, hissing at her from afar, as if she were the dangerous thing in the room.
But Ree paid no heed to the darkness.
Death is a doorway you can open and close as you like.
The words came to her unbidden. A man’s voice, one from far away in the dark.
She leaned over the boy’s bedside and brushed her lips to his, featherlight, the way she had read in her mother’s storybooks about dragons and love and spells, the way the magic in her blood told her to.Come back to me,she whispered against his lips.
When Ree pulled away, the boy’s eyes opened. They were slate gray, not a hint of blue, almost silver in the candlelight. Those strange eyes fell over her face, and she felt the familiar feeling swelling in her chest, the feeling that they had known each other before, that they should know each other now.
“Who are you?” he rasped.
“I’m Ree,” she said with a shy smile. “The princess of the Voodoos.”
“Well,” he said with a smile. “Hello, princess.”
Her mother and Father Antoine watched the two of them in plain shock. Death was still here, all around, lingering over the other beds, grasping on to other souls.But not this one,Ree thought.This one is not ready.She stared at the boy with gray eyes touched with silver.This one is mine.
Her mother took her hand and drew her away. “Ree, what happened?”
“Death is but a doorway,” said Ree unthinkingly.
Her mother stood frozen, pale and tight-lipped. “What did you say?”
Death is but a doorway.Those were not her words but the words her magic whispered in her ear. Sometimes her magic had no voice at all, it was just her own intuition, and sometimes the voices of the loa spoke to her, the ancestors too. Other times her magic had the deep, raspy voice of a man who was neither god nor spirit butpowerful all the same. And he told her things only she could do and how to go about them.
Now Ree remembered that dark feeling of death, the cold draft of its lingering presence. And she still remembered that kiss, so innocent, so simple it had seemed at the time. Henryk had recovered quickly, and they had been inseparable after that night. How had she and Henryk drifted so far from where they’d begun?
But she didn’t have time for such questions, not when she turned the street corner and the sight of her home came into view, tiny and white, the windows shuttered. Ree slipped inside. In the parlor, the painted faces in her mother’s beloved portraits glared accusingly, reminding her of the last moment they’d shared in this room. They’d said ugly things to each other. But had they said the truth? Bits and pieces of it, Ree supposed. But never enough. Not nearly enough. And her mother had warned her about Henryk’s return.Not as the boy you once loved. No, my sweet daughter. As your enemy.
Ree held out her hand, pointing to the barren hearth, allowing Ogoun’s power to channel through her. Today the loa were kind, and the fire god’s magic leapt from her fingertips, igniting the coals. And then it hit her—the unmistakable bitter scent of foxglove.
“Hello, little witch,” a voice spoke from the shadows.
Ree whirled to see a man stepping into the light of the fire, drawing back the hood of his long black velvet robe trimmed in silver and white crescent moons and stars.
“Silas,” she hissed.
“I suppose we are on the basis of first names now, aren’t we?” Silas let a suggestive silence follow, the flames bathing his white hair in orange and red. “Considering I saved your life.”
“My mother saved my life.”
“And where is she?” The Grand Wizard took a slow look around the parlor, marveling in its rustic charm, the simple furnishings. “Where exactly is Marie Laveau?”
“What do you want?”
He held out an arm, and his staff whooshed past Ree, lifting her hair, and into his waiting hand. His eyes held firm on hers. “Where is your mother, young witch?”
“She—”
He tutted at her, slowly circling, the strange black stone dragon atop his staff staring at her with twin glittering gemstone eyes. A faint vibration in the air made her skin crawl. “Something tells me your next words will be a lie. Let’s not waste each other’s time. I know that your mother sleeps in the bayou, hexed by some nefarious magic.”
The room tilted upside down. How? How could he know? Anabelle had betrayed her, yes. But she’d attributed this betrayal to Jon the Conjurer’s return, to Voodoo. She couldn’t see how the Brotherhood fit into all of this.
“And how do you know that?” she finally asked. She could have lied—sheshouldhave lied—but she needed to understand what exactly she was missing.
“I have my means. You see, in the past your mother needed my magic—”
